


Thick as Thieves

by robotboy



Category: Black Sails
Genre: 1920s, 1970s, 1980s, American Civil War, American Revolution, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bandits & Outlaws, Cannibalism, Canon Relationships, Claustrophobia, Immortality, M/M, Magical Realism, Post-Canon, World War II, approximately Treasure Island compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-26
Updated: 2018-12-14
Packaged: 2019-08-30 01:34:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 12,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16755343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robotboy/pseuds/robotboy
Summary: John Silver and James Flint are cursed to live forever: an account of the three hundred years it takes them to work out their issues.





	1. 1715, Skeleton Island

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: This fic is REALLY SAD but I promise there’s a happy ending. There’s graphic violence, starvation-induced cannibalism, and a scene in a tightly confined space (the character isn’t claustrophobic but the description is detailed). War and death are recurring themes.
> 
> There will also be historical inaccuracies—if you spot any, please don’t hesitate to let me know as I’d love to learn more about the times and places used in the story.
> 
> [My mood board for this fic!](http://r0b0tb0y.tumblr.com/post/180530977247/thick-as-thieves-an-immortal-silverflint-fic)

They fight, but it feels more like a dance. A practiced pattern of two bodies moving in harmony, Flint’s advance and Silver’s parry, Silver’s jab and Flint’s dodge. The rhythm of boot, boot, boot, crutch, the barking melody of a sword slicing air and the shriek as steel scrapes steel. The pressure on Silver’s wrist as Flint’s blade weighs on Silver’s hilt. It used to ache, Flint bearing down and the close heat of him held back by nothing except Silver’s hand. But they trained, until his wrist could resist the weight of it.

Flint’s eyes flicker downwards. Silver was right to watch those eyes. Silver swings the crutch out of the way before Flint can think to kick it.

‘I’ll teach you to fight and not die,’ Flint had said. But Silver has survived every fight he’s ever been in.

Until today.

Flint taught him to aim low, to be deadliest on the ground, where any other man would only be dead. Silver sweeps the crutch in an arcing blow at Flint’s head, and as Flint dodges it Silver’s sword unlocks itself from Flint’s and snakes toward Flint’s belly. And Silver’s wrist is stronger from months of training, guiding the point to sink so easily through Flint. But Flint has blocked the crutch with his sword. The movement that started as Silver’s own strike buries Flint’s blade between Silver’s shoulder and his neck.

Every day on the cliffs, Flint’s blade had nicked him. A thousand cuts, and each lesson was delivered with such mercy that not a single one left a mark.

Every day on the cliffs, Silver came closer to winning a bout, but every strike seemed so shallow that Flint never bled for more than a minute. As if he could simply will the blood back under his skin.

Silver screams. This wasn’t the harmony. This wasn’t how their song ever went. They were a war cry, but they were a ballad underneath.

Silver collapses into Flint, his left arm useless and his chest in agony. He realises the movement sinks his own sword deeper into Flint. Flint drops to his knees, taking Silver’s weight with him. Silver’s shoulder burns, and every breath is getting wetter, like drowning under the Walrus again. Blood is pouring from him, spilling so fast it tickles, a distraction from the waves of pain that make it hard to think.

Flint holds him, clasping like he can simply pull the wound back together, ignoring his own breath getting shallower. His shirt is already red but the shining stain blossoming through the middle of him is unmistakeable.

As if their tune had one more mournful verse neither of them had heard before, its lilting lyrics sending them both off-balance and changing the meaning of every familiar word.

Silver tries to gasp and splutters, and Flint’s gaze skitters over Silver’s lips. Silver knows the metallic taste there. He’s surprised there’s any blood left for his mouth. Flint makes a hissing noise, and convulses. It almost pitches Silver over, as Flint reaches between them and yanks the sword free from his stomach.

_Don’t,_ Silver thinks. As though it will make any difference now. As though he wasn’t the one to bury the sword there a moment ago.

What a stupid way to die. What a stupid reason, when Madi is out there, and Thomas Hamilton as well.

‘What?’ Flint murmurs. Had Silver spoken aloud?

‘He’s alive,’ Silver slurs. At least it doesn’t hurt anymore. He hates those tales, of a supposed reprieve before you die. It seems only a cruel joke that life might offer grace only as it’s snatched from you. In Silver’s experience, it’s nothing but hurt all the way down.

‘Silver,’ Flint is staring at the wound in Silver’s throat. _Take a good fucking look,_ Silver thinks. _It’s your handiwork._

Flint sits back on his heels. Silver reaches out instinctively to steady him, but Flint balances himself. He lifts his shirt, tugging where the blood has glued it to his belly. Silver stares at the skin smeared red, the hair matted down around Flint’s navel. Flint touches the wound gingerly, then scratches it. Silver flinches in sympathy, but Flint scrapes away the clotted blood to expose a shallow gouge in the shape of Silver’s sword. It looks old. Like he was never run through.

A pang in Silver’s neck brings him back to himself. Flint’s eyes trace the movement as Silver’s right hand finds the place where his collarbone splits from his throat. The spurting blood has grown sluggish. The edge is like a seam, with the irritable numbness of an old scar. There’s pain, still, but clamouring louder is an itch from his skin to his bones. He cranes his neck to watch, whimpering at the jolt of pain. He can only see the raw edge of the cut as it closes. He follows it with his fingers. The gaping hole where Flint has chopped is barely a slice. He flinches when Flint touches his jaw, guiding his head straight so it’s not pulling on the wound. It’s easier to breathe when Flint does that.

‘What the _fuck,’_ Flint mutters. Silver takes a deep lungful of air, only damp because they’re still in this accursed fucking jungle. In spite of the blood they’re both bathed in, Flint looks no more like a revenant than he usually does. Silver wonders what else he could simply undo. What betrayals and mistakes could he seal as easily as the hole in his throat where a minute ago, the life had been determined to bleed out of him? Did Flint teach him this, on the cliffs? A way to will a wound into healing if he’d never wanted it to hurt?

He opens his mouth to ask, and the Walrus explodes.


	2. 1773, Boston

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shoutout to Toby Stephens for literally describing this setup in an interview yesterday

The ships call to him.

Flint works as a carpenter, in a shop closer to the harbour than it needs to be. He hears the sailors shouting to each other, the bells and the groaning wood and the waves on the docks. Flint makes cabinets and chairs, tables and toys. He keeps to himself.

He’d come to Boston eleven years after Thomas had died. Miranda had said once there was joy in Boston, and music, and peace.

There’s music, at least. He’s skeptical about the other two.

He’d broken his last promise to Thomas. _Don’t you mourn me,_ Thomas had implored. Flint had shaken his head and held Thomas closer, so tight it must be hurting. _You’ve grieved enough already, my love._

But Thomas had broken his first promise to Flint, the one he made in Georgia after they were reunited. _Don’t look back,_ Flint had told him. The plantation was burning and the guards were coming. _I’ll be right behind you._

They were both of them stubborn fools. Thomas had looked back and seen James riddled with bullet holes and scorched in more places than he wasn’t.

And twenty years later, James had mourned, not the rage he’d felt when Thomas was snatched from him but a hollow, fathomless grief when Thomas had finally slipped away.

It comes back sometimes, when the tide is low and the wind goes still. But so does the call of the ships, a different kind of ache for a life lost. He makes things with his hands in his little shop and some evenings, after he closes, he sits by the docks and listens to men talk of the sea. He hears whispers, as well, of things he shouted a lifetime ago. Of the crown’s tyranny, of a challenge to the empire. He’s always had an ear for that language. His heart has always beat to the drums of war. It flickers like a fire in his blood, the accursed optimism that Thomas had always adored, the chance that his war was not yet lost.

Those whispers, and the creaking of the ships, and the lap of the waves bring him back. Even in the summer, Boston never rivals the heat of the Caribbean, but Flint closes his eyes and he can smell the crates of spices being unloaded. He can hear the uneven step-thump, step-thump of his old shadow.

His eyes snap open.

‘As I live and breathe,’ murmurs John Silver. And he does live, he does breathe, not a day older than the last time Flint saw him. He’s clean-shaven, in a tattered grey jacket. Perched on the shoulder of it is a large parrot that is a more outrageous shade of green than anything in Massachusetts has any business being.

It shrieks like a demon and Silver mutters: ‘Yes, I know, but don’t make such a fuss,’ as though they understand each other perfectly.

‘Captain Flint…’ Silver says, coming to stand in front of him.

‘Mister McGraw will do,’ Flint glares, not moving from where he’s propped against a rail.

‘Oh, it’s the bird’s name,’ Silver tells him cheerfully. To the bird, he says: ‘It’s time you finally met James McGraw.’

The bird swears profusely.

‘It’s mutual,’ Flint growls.

‘You know,’ Silver shakes his head, looking out to sea. There’s a fond smile on his face, so sweet it stings Flint for a second. ‘I wondered if I’d find you here.’

‘What, on the docks?’ Flint asks.

‘No, in Boston,’ Silver explains. ‘There’s talk of rabble being roused. Of war against the empire.’

‘It’s not my doing,’ Flint scoffs.

‘But you’re here. Fate seems to follow us,’ Silver looks at him, his eyes that same luminescent blue that had first felled Flint’s heart. ‘Haven’t you found?’

Flint takes a fortifying breath, crossing his arms. ‘If anyone else asked me, I’d have said I spent a long time trying _not_ to be followed.’

The bird pecks Silver on the ear and launches herself into the sky. Flint stares as she vanishes into the twilight.

‘She’s two hundred years old,’ Silver waves his hand dismissively. ‘She’ll be back sooner or later.’

Flint shakes his head.

‘Or she won’t,’ Silver shrugs. ‘My ship sails at dawn. Shall we get a drink?’

Which is how Flint ends up in the tavern, nursing an ale in the corner with Silver.

‘There’s good business here,’ Silver says. ‘This city _loves_ smugglers and rogues.’

‘Don’t get nostalgic,’ Flint warns him. ‘Not when you darken my fucking doorstep after this long.’

‘What else are we supposed to talk about?’ Silver asks. ‘The weather?’

‘Drink your ale.’

‘It’s all starting again,’ Silver attempts to pick up that thread of conversation. He nods toward a group of men loudly conferring at the largest table. ‘Never thought you’d live to see the day, did you?’

‘If you’re asking if I expected to live past a hundred, no, I didn’t,’ Flint takes a long draught of ale.

‘But you feel it, don’t you?’ Silver smiles at him, as if they’re suddenly the only two in the tavern. ‘It might really work this time.’

‘It might have worked last time,’ Flint snaps.

Silver looks away. He sighs, sipping his ale.

‘When did Madi leave you?’ Flint asks.

‘Why do you assume she left me?’ Silver scowls.

Flint gives him a look.

‘Fifteen years ago,’ Silver draws a deep breath, his eyes sliding away and then back to Flint’s. ‘When I went back to Skeleton Island.’

Flint swears. He doesn’t need to ask if Silver was successful. He wouldn’t be sailing into Boston harbour with a tattered jacket, drinking on Flint’s tab, if he was.

‘My turn,’ Silver says. ‘Why did you draw the map for Billy?’

Flint looks down at the table, tracing the grain of the wood with his fingernail. ‘I knew somebody would come. If he had a map, perhaps he wouldn’t drag me back there with him.’

‘Smart,’ Silver comments. ‘You were right. The place is fucking cursed.’

‘Did it get Billy?’

‘The curse?’ Silver clarifies. ‘No, he’s dead. Never made it to the island.’

Flint doesn’t say _good._ Silver doesn’t either, but they’re both thinking it.

‘When did Thomas die?’ Silver asks quietly.

‘1738,’ Flint murmurs.

‘I’m sorry,’ his voice is soft, and sincere.

‘Don’t be,’ Flint tells him. ‘It was twenty years. Twenty years I wouldn’t have had, if not for you.’

Silver hides behind his mug. Flint stares at his throat through every heavy swallow of ale.

‘For everything else you took away,’ Flint sighs. ‘You gave me that. I don’t deny it.’

‘That’s why you haven’t killed me?’ Silver asks.

‘That, and I’m not sure I can,’ Flint smiles wryly.

‘Want to try again?’ Silver grins. ‘We could take it outside, you could have another go at cutting my head off.’

‘We can take it outside,’ Flint rolls his eyes. ‘But I’m not going to the trouble of finding a sword just to ruin your jacket.’

They finish their ale. The night has cooled sharply when they step out onto the street.

‘Do you have a room somewhere?’ Flint asks.

‘No,’ Silver shrugs. ‘Why, do you?’

‘I have _my_ room,’ Flint can already tell where this is going.

‘Is it a big room?’ Silver asks.

‘No, it isn’t,’ Flint tells him. ‘Yes, you can stay.’

‘Much appreciated,’ Silver claps him on the shoulder, balancing precariously on his crutch to do so. ‘I’ll be out of your hair before dawn.’

‘I know,’ Flint says. He leads Silver to his shop. Silver lingers close behind him while Flint unlocks it. God, Flint had forgotten the way he smelt. Nothing Flint could put words to, and not exactly the same as he used to, but close enough. Closer than Flint expected.

Flint lights a candle as Silver wanders curiously through the shop. He runs his fingers over the shelf of wooden toys and Flint tamps down the instinct to scold him for it. Flint guides him into the back, up the narrow stairs to the bedroom. He’d thought at some point on this journey he’d come up with a way to offer the chair in the back room for one or the other of them to sleep on. He’d been so caught up in whether he should demand that Silver do it, take the free chair and be gone in a few hours, or whether he should be the polite host and take it himself. The third possibility, the one he’d avoided considering, is the one unfolding now as Silver props his crutch against the wall, shedding his jacket, trousers, and boot before scooting over to make space for Flint.

It’s not much space. Flint sits beside him and strips to his underthings, and the night may be cold but Silver’s surreptitious glance is decidedly not.

Silver is sitting very close. He opens his mouth and pauses, looking away. A soft laugh escapes him, a vulnerable little thing.

‘I think I was in love with you. Back then.’

Flint shakes his head in surprise. Silver talks like a ghost, but Flint himself should be a ghost by now.

‘You knew,’ Silver accuses him, eyes going wide. ‘You knew, didn’t you?’

Flint can’t help but smile. ‘I wondered. Then I suspected. And in the end, yeah. I knew.’

He doesn’t say he hoped. But he had, with a deep and lovely longing that he thought he’d left behind.

‘Why didn’t you say anything?’ Silver sounds breathless.

‘What could I have said?’ Flint challenges him. ‘What would it have changed?’

‘Anything,’ Silver’s eyes search his face in askance. ‘All of it? We don’t _know.’_

‘What do you imagine we’d have done?’ Flint spits out the questions he knows so well, from the longest nights, the loneliest ones. ‘Would we have pulled cities into the sea together? Burned the empire to ashes? Bathed in blood and crowned ourselves the two kings of the new world?’

Silver opens his mouth, but Flint continues.

‘And when you tell yourself this little story, have you ever asked—if that was what we became, _could you have given me back to him?’_

Silver’s mouth snaps shut. His jaw works, and he turns his face away. He digs his fingers into the blanket, and Flint can tell he’s searching the shadows for a better answer.

‘No,’ Silver says quietly. ‘No, I couldn’t have.’

‘Then don’t ask me why we never were,’ Flint snaps.

Because Silver gave him twenty years with Thomas, but in those twenty years Flint’s beard never greyed past the streak already there, and his bones never ached while Thomas grew old, and Flint buried Thomas in the yard of their cottage but not once tonight has he asked why it was Silver who survived.

‘Oh,’ Silver murmurs. ‘You were in love with me.’

If it had been a question, Flint would have denied it. But it’s a statement of fact. The truth of it is there in the way Flint’s lips part willingly for Silver’s kiss.

Silver whimpers. His tongue slides hot and urgent into Flint’s mouth, seeking Flint’s. Flint growls and kisses back, his breath catching. Silver grabs Flint’s shirt with both hands and pulls him closer, sending them both tumbling onto the mattress. Silver ends up arched over Flint, his mouth desperate against Flint’s, his fingers moving to tilt Flint’s jaw up and then to cup his neck.

Flint nips Silver’s lip and Silver groans, shivering all over. He writhes on top of Flint, as if a dam built sixty years ago has broken, and this is the flood.

Flint loosens the tie in Silver’s hair and lets curls fall all over them both. They trickle through his fingers, and when he finds Silver’s scalp and digs his fingertips in, Silver whines. He’s half-straddling Flint, his good knee between Flint’s thighs. Flint coaxes him into a deeper kiss and Silver beginning to tremble, both of them needing to stop for air but unwilling to. Flint eventually has to drag Silver off him by the hair. He tips his head up, gasping, and Silver takes the opportunity to tug Flint’s shirt up to his chest. He runs his fingers through the hair there, finding Flint’s nipples and tweaking them. Flint grunts, batting Silver’s ribs to slow him down. Silver takes it as a signal to remove his own shirt. As the candle gutters low from the gust of air, Flint worries he won’t get a decent look at Silver. But Silver perches on top of him, eager to be admired. Flint’s touch trails from his throat down the centre of his chest, lighter at Silver’s navel when he finds Silver is ticklish. Had he known Silver was ticklish? Had Silver been this resplendently golden when they used to spar together? Had Flint managed to teach him anything when Silver was distraction made flesh?

He can feel the shallowness of Silver’s breath, the nervous anticipation trembling beneath his skin. With a surge of affection, Flint realises Silver truly hadn’t known until minutes ago how Flint had once coveted him. How he coveted him still. A part of Flint will always be cynical, whispering that it’s the only reason Silver wouldn’t have twisted it to his advantage. But it doesn’t matter anymore, not when Silver is watching him with half-lidded eyes, his bottom lip caught between his teeth. Silver reaches over to pinch the candle wick and Flint is left with the after-image of him.

Silver’s fingertips trail over Flint’s collarbone, where Flint imagines it will leave a smudge of soot. God help him, had Silver’s fingers always been so thick?

Silver yanks Flint’s shirt until Flint props himself up and removes it. The moment it’s gone Silver kisses him again. He presses his body to Flint’s, thigh driving against Flint’s crotch. He moans into Flint’s mouth when he feels Flint’s cock half-mast already. He rocks, increasing the pressure and making Flint grunt. Flint takes hold of Silver’s shoulders. If he doesn’t slow this down, Silver’s going to unbalance up there. If he does, Flint is afraid this fragile thing between them will shatter. He guides Silver down, assuring him with kisses, shuffling to one side until they lie face to face on the bed. Besides, the heat between them may be palpable but the room is chilly. They wrestle with the blanket until it’s covering them both. Silver doesn’t let them settle for a heartbeat, slithering back into Flint’s arms. His hips press flush against Flint’s, making Flint gasp. Silver is just as hard, rutting against him. Flint sinks his teeth into Silver’s lip once more, and this time Silver’s moan is unexpectedly loud.

Silver reaches a fumbling hand between them, adjusting himself before wrapping his fingers around Flint’s cock. Then Flint is the one whining, sucking on Silver’s pout and feeling Silver exhale sharply through his nose. Silver strokes firmly, swift and certain, his mouth pulling free of Flint’s to form a grin. Flint is shaking, fighting the urge to buck into Silver’s hand and finish this all too soon. Silver is a quick study, finding how a flick of his wrist makes Flint gasp; a pause sets Flint on edge; a slide of his thumb sends shivers up Flint’s spine. Flint is holding Silver’s face, his thumb on Silver’s cheekbone and his pinkie on the pulse at Silver’s throat. He can feel it flutter, his own heart thrumming in answer. He whimpers, and Silver whispers: ‘Yes, that’s it.’ Then Flint is spilling into Silver’s palm, his face contorted and so close to Silver’s he can feel the murmured encouragements from Silver’s lips.

He comes back to himself, brushing tendrils of hair from Silver’s forehead. He can feel Silver’s smile.

But it’s not over yet. Flint has an irrational need for proof: proof that it was not only him who wanted this. That Silver needs him in equal measure.

And Flint remembers how to make a man need. He ducks away from the kiss Silver is seeking, instead sucking bruises that won’t last into Silver’s throat. He lets his beard scrape the skin, feeling the vibration of Silver’s moans. He shoves Silver onto his back and Silver understands, wiping his hand on a discarded shirt and then running his fingers through Flint’s hair, encouraging him downwards.

Flint could spend a year with his mouth on Silver’s torso, but he takes a shortcut tonight. He laves Silver’s cock with a heavy press of his tongue from the base to the tip. Flint slides his lips around the head and Silver is ludicrously vocal in his appreciation. The taste of Silver is salty on Flint’s tongue as he curls it, suckling wet on Silver’s cock. Silver’s hips bounce and Flint deftly avoids being choked, letting Silver settle before sliding his mouth down Silver’s cock with as much pressure as he can muster. He bobs his head a few times before pulling off, smothering the shaft in licks and kisses while he catches his breath. Silver scrabbled at his scalp, pleading wordlessly for more. Flint finally acquiesces, sinking onto Silver’s cock and swallowing. His throat works around the girth of it, and Flint has to brace himself with one hand curled around the base of Silver’s cock because—he can admit this to himself if not ever to Silver—it’s bigger than he expected.

He pumps with his fist and drags his lips off Silver with a slow, wet pop. Silver’s heel kicks desperately against the mattress, and Flint can feel how tense he is, brimming with arousal. Flint licks the head, not slowing his fist, and Silver leaks onto his tongue. Flint growls in pleasure at the taste, letting the sound thrum against the delicate skin of Silver’s cock.

‘Come back,’ Silver gasps unevenly. ‘Come back here, I want to kiss you.’

Flint snorts in surprise, but he obeys. He keeps his hand around Silver’s cock as he crawls up, and Silver hurries him, pulling Flint’s face to his. The kiss is wanton, clumsy, and lovely, Silver still making incomprehensible noises as he devours Flint’s mouth. Flint keeps working Silver’s cock, squeezing with every keening noise Silver makes, and Silver’s lips are pressed against his cheek as his cock pulses and he comes, shuddering. Flint steers Silver through crashing waves of aftershocks, his mouth gentle while his hand is relentless. Silver is so close Flint can feel his eyelashes flutter, and finally Silver whimpers for Flint to release him and they slump back onto the mattress, limbs still tangled together.

‘I can’t believe you knew,’ Silver mutters, boneless and taking up more space than he should.

‘Silver, you named a bird after me,’ Flint reminds him. ‘I can’t believe you didn’t.’

Silver’s ship is no longer in the harbour at dawn, and the little wooden shark on Flint’s shelf of toys is missing as well.


	3. 1819, Quebec

Silver wakes up to snowfall, a parting gift from winter. He gets his boots and coat on before setting out along the river. It’s a good morning: there are four minks caught in his traps, foolish from the breeding season and wearing their fluffiest coats. He doesn’t bother skinning them: if the buyers don’t want them fresh, he can tan them for another sale.

By noon the snow is beginning to melt, making the trail out of the valley treacherous. Silver’s well accustomed to it now, a decent wooden peg under his cleated boots, the stump of his knee lined with rabbit fur. At the ford he meets the Cree trappers. They gossip about his haul of minks as they trek down to the road. The Frenchmen haven’t yet arrived for the meeting, so the trappers settle in for lunch. Silver sits with them, leaning his weight on the butt of his rifle as the afternoon thins. There’s a restlessness in the group: any later and the French engagés won’t make it back to the nearest town before nightfall. If they’ve missed the meeting, it’s a good day’s hunting lost and more wares to carry until the next trade. The closer to the road they stay, the more likely bandits are to find them. Fights between the Companies have grown fierce, and the trappers steer clear of them as best they can.

It’s almost evening when the French finally arrive. The trappers are eager to return to their camps, but they won’t rush negotiations over the price. Silver is thrust in the middle of it, haggling between Cree and Québécois. The commission he takes for it is small, but the engagés offer him more than they should for the minks.

‘Parlez-vous Anglais*?’ the leader asks.

‘Oui,’ he shoves his hands in his pockets, not liking the evening chill. ‘Qu’est-ce que tu veux?’

‘L’Ours Rouge,’ the engagé says. ‘Créer des ennuis. Vous traiter.’

‘Un ours? Je ne peux pas traiter avec un ours,’ Silver shakes his head. He’ll be lucky if he can find the trail back to camp after nightfall, and the French are bribing him to deal with a bear. He’s never caught anything bigger than a beaver.

‘Il est un homme Anglais,’ the Frenchman explains. ‘Un voleur.’

Silver sighs, and then the Frenchman takes out ten Montreal banknotes.

‘Où est le voleur?’ Silver asks, counting the notes and shoving them in his pocket. He’s dealt in tokens for so long that ten dollars will probably trade at three times their rate just for rarity. If it’s commensurate to the trouble he should expect from this thief they call the Red Bear… well, it’s not like the man can kill him. He slings his rifle over his back and takes the horse they offer him.

The Red Bear hunts in the longest stretches of road, away from the lakes and rivers. The engagés tell Silver that he’s been playing off Company rivalries by robbing them blind, stalking from here to Halifax. True to their word, the last of the twilight is snatched away as a pistol clicks in the treeline.

’Good evening!’ Silver calls. He nudges his horse forward. ‘How may we help you?’

‘The furs,’ says a reedy voice from near the pistol. A scruffy little man emerges from the shadows, making eyes at the engagés’ cart. ‘And then any money you’ve got—none of your stinking tokens, though.’

The engagés stir uneasily. Silver sits up in his saddle, letting authority radiate from him. ‘I’m hired to negotiate with the Red Bear. Is he here?’

‘You North West Company?’ the man asks.

‘I’m a negotiator,’ Silver repeats. ‘Get your boss.’

It’s good to know the tone of voice still works. While the bandits rustle and mutter among themselves, Silver takes a lamp from the cart and holds it up. It illuminates his own face more than anything, but he’s got a nice face. It’s good for negotiating with. If he’d known that’s what he’d be doing today, he’d have shaved it.

As L’Ours Rouge emerges from the shadows, he lives up to his name in size. An enormous coat flatters his broad shoulders—but it’s the bright red fur of a fox, not a bear. It matches his shaggy hair hanging loose to his chest. His step hesitates as he approaches the lamplight, but Silver recognises him even in the gloom.

‘So you’re the man they call L’Ours Rouge,’ he smiles.

Flint’s teeth flash as he snarls. ‘ _You?_ You work for the Company?’

‘I’m freelance,’ Silver explains. ‘In translation and negotiation. I also have some very soft minks.’

‘What are you here to negotiate?’ Flint shifts his weight, growing more bearlike as he does. Even from his height on the horse, Silver had forgotten how much space Flint could take up when he wanted to. The engagés are getting skittish.

‘That you kindly cease your attacks on convoys,’ Silver smirks, already knowing the answer.

‘Or?’ Flint is unimpressed.

‘Or, they can say they’ve warned you,’ Silver answers.

‘What do they care? North West is insured,’ Flint spits. ‘They don’t pay their Frenchmen.’

‘But their Frenchmen pay _me,’_ Silver explains patiently. ‘Ten freshly-minted Montreal dollars to make _you_ go away.’

Flint’s eyes gleam. ‘Do they think it’ll work?’

‘They don’t speak a lick of English,’ Silver grins, drawing his rifle from his shoulder. ‘And they’ve already paid me.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *’Do you speak English?’  
> ‘Yes, what is it you want?’  
> ‘The Red Bear is causing trouble. You can deal with it?’  
> ‘A bear? I’m not dealing with a bear.’  
> ‘He’s an Englishman. A thief.’  
> ‘Where's the thief?’


	4. 1861, Columbus

‘I can’t believe you’re doing this.’

‘Well you see, I went to enlist,’ Silver drawls. ‘Had my blue coat fitted and everything. Then they were getting me a pair of boots, and I said I only needed one, and, well…’

‘You think you’re funny,’ Flint sneers.

‘And you think you’re smart,’ Silver retorts. ‘They’re not so desperate that they’ll take a one-legged man in the army.’

‘You don’t think they could use _a man who cannot die?!’_ Flint wants to throw something. Preferably Silver. But Silver leans on a pew, adjusting his cuffs with unnecessary attention.

‘They’ve got one,’ Silver points out. ‘They’ve got you.’

’How can you stand this?!’ Flint’s voice raises. ‘To stay here, in this _theatre_ of yours, when you know the true cause? If Madi—’

‘You bastard,’ Silver growls. ‘Don’t you _dare_ tell me what Madi would have wanted.’

‘Am I wrong?’ Flint looks him in the eye.

‘No,’ Silver sighs. ‘But you’re a bastard.’

Flint shakes his head.

‘We fight better side by side,’ he says to Silver. ‘It’s not like you’ll be worse off at the end of it.’

‘Could you admit the reason you want this _so_ much?’ Silver asks. ‘That under all your burning passion for liberation, there’s another hunger far simpler?’

‘Don’t turn this into a conversation about my soul,’ Flint turns his face away. ‘I don’t need parlour tricks.’

Silver weaves his way into Flint’s peripheral vision.

‘This isn’t a question of salvation. There’s something deeper in you,’ Silver murmurs. ‘And all it wants is blood.’

‘I don’t want to lose you,’ Flint admits. It’s easier to address that than the truth in Silver’s words. ‘Not after all this time.’

Silver swallows, and reaches for him. His hand clasps Flint’s shoulder, thumb running tenderly over Flint’s neck.

‘You’re the best tactician I’ve ever seen,’ Silver tells him. ‘You belong at the front. But there’s more than one way to fight a war, my love.’

Flint thinks of it, when he’s back in fucking Georgia with a bullet in his neck. He grins at the soldiers’ terrified faces when they see him rise from the pile of bodies, a spectre in the smoke. He cuts them down with relentless purpose, until he’s soaked head to toe in blood, the only man left standing on the battlefield. Silver, four hundred miles away in his preposterous little church, knew how much Flint missed this. Flint spits a bullet out and starts chasing a soldier fleeing over the hill.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr is going to hell in a handbasket, so I suggest subscribing to this fic via ao3 :)


	5. 1886, Montana

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's my _The Good, The Bad and the Ugly_ AU! About 70% of the reason I wanted to write this fic in the first place.
> 
> Warning: this is one of the very gory chapters. It has a character trapped in a confined space, and while the character isn't panicking, it has very detailed description. Skip this chapter if you prefer.

They got Billy the Kid. They got Jesse James. They get James Flint, too, and they pay the bounty hunter five hundred dollars and they hang him by the neck in the middle of the one street in town until he’s dead.

Silver shifts his weight awkwardly, his elbow thumping against wood. He begins to sing:

_‘My grandfather's clock was to large for the shelf,_

_So it stood ninety years on the floor;_

_It was taller by half than the old man himself,_

_Though it weighed not a pennyweight more.’_

His voice is too loud in the silence, and still muffled by the tight space. He touches his throat to feel the vibration, his fingers catching on the pattern of grazes under his jaw.

_‘It was bought on the morn of the day that he was born,_

_And was always his treasure and pride._

_But it stopp'd short, Never to go again,_

_When the old man died.’_

The sting isn’t fresh anymore, the wounds mostly scabbed over in the last few hours. He pushes a little harder, the rough pad of his finger harsh on tender skin, feeling for the bruises beginning to bloom.

_‘My grandfather said, that of those he could hire,_

_Not a servant so faithful he found:_

_For it wasted no time, and had but one desire,_

_At the close of each week to be wound.’_

He thinks he can feel a splinter in his elbow. They hardly even sand the pine these days, though he supposes it’s not usually something that gets complaints. He wriggles lower, definitely catching a splinter in the process, and taps his foot against the side to give his song a rhythm.

_‘And it kept in its place, not a frown upon its face,_

_And its hands never hung by its side;_

_But it stopp'd short, Never to go again,_

_When the old man died.’_

He rolls his neck from side to side, stretching as much as he can. Every time he does this, he’d swear it feels tighter where it snapped, as though the bones haven’t quite knit themselves back together properly. At least it snapped this time. He hates choking, and his voice is already croaky as he stumbles over another verse.

_‘It rang an alarm in the dead of the night,_

_And alarm that for years had been dumb;_

_And we know that his spirit was pluming its flight,_

_That his hour of departure had come.’_

At first he’d drifted asleep to the patter of rain and dirt. There’s still air enough to sing, so it’s likely hours left to wait. There’s nothing to be done besides, with the wet earth packed down too densely.

_‘Still the clock kept the time, with a soft muffled chime,_

_As we silently stood by his side;_

_But it stopp'd short, Never to go again,_

_When the old man died.’_

He sings the chorus to himself a few more times, changing the key to keep himself amused. His lips are dry and he aches all over. He’d like to stretch, and piss, and drink a gallon of water, but there’s only one of those things he can do right now and it’s not going to make things better in here. He tucks up his good knee and presses upwards. The wood doesn’t even have the decency to groan, no matter how cheap it is.

Then the wood presses back. Silver’s ears prick up and yes, there it is, another jab of pressure and a distant crunching sound. He splays both palms in front of him, and a giddy laugh bubbles out of his throat when he feels movement.

‘Come on, come _on…’_ he chants, drumming until he gets another splinter. He pitches up, weight on his heel and his shoulders, as if he can lift himself out early. It’ll be another hour yet if the rain hasn’t let up, but now the promise is there.

He waits and waits to hear it: it gets him on tenterhooks every time, and it always makes him jump when the shovel thunks. It’s absurdly loud, almost painful but so very welcome. Then a scraping, scrabbling noise, and the sweetest sound Silver ever hears. Two knocks on the lid of his coffin.

Silver knocks back, nothing but a layer of pine between his knuckles and Flint’s. He sprawls as much as he can, relief almost as good as real air. Now he strains his ears, he can hear the rain still tapping against the exposed lid. There’s more scraping, more thumping, and finally, a triplicate of knocks down near his waist. He wriggles himself as far away from it as he can, then replies with three knocks.

The shovel smashes into the coffin and a rush of cold comes in with it. Cool mud dribbles against Silver’s side and he doesn’t even mind. He grabs at the fractured wood and yanks it along the grain, making the hole bigger.

‘Keep out of the way,’ Flint growls, jamming the shovel in again. Silver disregards him, touching the chilly metal like it’s a religious icon. He follows it as Flint finds the seam between the lid and the walls, waiting for Flint’s grunt as he wedges it in and heaves. The wood cracks and Silver shoves away another piece, and the two of them hack away at it until there’s rain as sweet as syrup on Silver’s face and he gasps bracing lungfuls of air, letting Flint drag him out of the hole before he drops them both in a puddle of mud.

‘Fuck me,’ Silver sighs. ‘I was beginning to think you’d forgotten me.’

‘In case you haven’t noticed, it’s pouring fucking rain,’ Flint grumbles. ‘I’ve been at this most of the night.’

‘That’s Montana for you,’ Silver rolls over, getting his front as covered in sludge as his back. ‘We should take this operation south again.’

‘Every town south of here has already hanged you,’ Flint points out.

‘Ah, fuck,’ Silver butts his head against Flint’s chest. It’s hot and heaving and smells as ripe as Silver. ‘Why don’t you take a turn at being the wanted man, then?’

‘I _am_ the wanted man,’ Flint digs in his waistcoat, tossing a crumpled paper at Silver. ‘Says _James Flint,_ doesn’t it?’

It’s too sodden to open, but Silver doesn’t need to. ‘And right underneath it says five feet eight inches high, left foot missing, black curly hair, blue eyes.’

‘So how do you propose we switch places, then?’ Flint asks, clambering to his feet. He picks up Silver’s crutch where it’s resting against the wooden cross. Silver accepts it gratefully, getting himself upright while Flint gets to work shovelling the earth back into the grave.

‘I don’t know,’ Silver grouses. He doesn’t care that they’ve had the same argument for three years. It always feels good to drag it back out after a night underground. ‘I wasn’t thinking it through at the time. It was a tight spot.’

‘Tight spot?!’ Flint’s voice goes high. ‘You robbed a bank and killed three Texas rangers using _my_ name!’

’Said it was tight, didn’t I?’ Silver wobbles over to where Flint’s tied up his mare. She whickers at him, snuffling for his scent through the coating of mud. She’s always tetchy after Flint rides her into town with Silver slung across her like a saddlebag. Silver whispers to her, sweet promises of all the oats five hundred dollars can buy. For himself, he promises a hot bath and a square meal, though he won’t have an easy time getting either of those within fifty miles. Flint finally finishes filling the hole as the rain starts to abate. He dumps the shovel where the gravedigger had left it and helps Silver up onto the mare. He climbs up behind Silver and she fidgets irritably. Flint rummages for the waterskin and Silver takes it, leaning his back against Flint’s chest as he drains it in a series of hard swallows. Flint pulls his hair away from his throat and kisses the skin there.

‘Almost gone,’ he murmurs, his nose brushing the line of the noose.

Silver clucks the mare into a brisk walk, his head resting on Flint’s shoulder. Flint reaches around him to take the reins, steering them onto the road east. There’s a hint of light there, not yet dawn, but soon.

Soon there’s a river where they wash off the worst of the mud, until they’re respectable enough for an inn. Flint orders a bath and while it’s being drawn he fills a basin and washes Silver’s hair, his fingers combing patiently through the dirt and the blood and the splinters. Then finally the tub is full, and the water slops over the sides as Flint climbs in after Silver. They use half a bar of soap scrubbing each other clean from head to toe, and Flint drapes himself in Silver’s lap and kisses him everywhere. The water is so slippery with suds that Flint can easily slide a hand around Silver’s cock and his own, pulling them together, and Silver doesn’t mind the stale air of their mouths too close together, the water starting to turn lukewarm, the way he has to bite back groans, because he can feel Flint’s pulse hot against his skin, quickening in a rhythm with his own. And Flint comes with his eyes squeezed shut and a smile full of dimples, while Silver does it with his eyes open to drink in that look on Flint’s face. And then they’re another kind of filthy but there’s not a smudge of grave dirt on his skin anymore, so it’s enough. It’s enough.

They run the game another year, all the way back down to Arizona.

It never rains in Arizona. That’s why, after he’s sung through every fucking song he’s ever learned three times over, the earth is dry enough. He eventually pries his way through the pine, losing fingernails, only to grow them back, and lose them again. He almost drowns in dirt, scrabbling with his hands for hours through six feet of it and he wishes, for the first time in a hundred years, that he could die. That Flint could die, so Silver can kill him for this.

But when he finally breaks through to the searing sunlight, smoke chokes the anger from his throat. He crawls to the nearest shovel. It’s the only thing nearby that he can use as a crutch.

The town is burned to the ground. The gallows where they hanged him is cracked and blackened. He checks every corpse, and none of them are Flint. His mare is still tied up at the saloon. There’s an arrow in her throat.

He walks east. Buried in the sand, where they left it, is his crutch, and the saddlebag of cash. He takes both.

He keeps walking.


	6. 1922, somewhere in France

The rain beats hard against the glass, a lovely harmony with the rhythm of the train. Silver leans his forehead against the windowpane, watching the raindrops make horizontal rivulets of water crawl along like they’re trying to catch up with the landscape speeding by.

The back of his neck prickles. He turns, and sees four eyes watching him from the glass panel in the compartment door. Two children with hair the colour of carrots are staring at him.

He smiles at them, and beckons them in.

‘Hello,’ says the smaller one, a boy. His sister elbows him.

‘No, he’s probably French,’ she says. ‘Bonjour, monsieur…’

’It’s alright,’ he assures her, letting something generically Teutonic tint his accent. ‘I speak English. Are you American?’

‘Yes, sir,’ says the boy. ‘We’re from Washington.’

‘We’re on vacation,’ his sister elaborates.

‘Are you?’ Silver gestures for them to sit opposite him. The boy cannot be more than six, the girl, perhaps eight. ‘With your parents?’

‘Mama’s been asleep for _hours,’_ the boy complains. He has exactly the same snub nose and round pout as his sister.

‘What are your names?’ Silver asks.

‘I’m Alfie,’ says the boy. ‘This is Marjorie.’

‘Solomon Klein,’ he shakes their hands firmly, without a hint of condescension. Marjorie seems to appreciate that particularly.

‘Excuse me, Mister Klein,’ she tips her head to one side. ‘But what’s wrong with your foot?’

‘Ah,’ Silver says. He tugs the hem of his trousers, showing the false leg clearly. ‘I lost it in the war.’

After all, there’s always been a war.

Alfie opens his mouth but the girl interrupts him. ‘What did you do in the war?’

‘I was a sailor,’ he answers obliquely. ‘For a good many years before that, too.’

‘Did you ever see a mermaid?’ Alfie asks. He kicks his heels against the seat.

‘Oh, yes,’ Silver assures him. ‘I almost married one.’

From there, he weaves them tales. Some are taller than others. They’re a wonderful audience, hanging off his every word.

‘It was my idea to drop the anchor late, so late the ship would spin around and go skittering up the beach,’ he demonstrates with his hands. ‘My old captain, he doubted me until the moment it worked. You’d swear he was the devil himself...’

And for a moment, Silver sees the devil in the corner of his eye.

The compartment door opens. Flint double-takes and recovers as rapidly as Silver does. Compared to the children he looks blond, with a moustache as fetching as it is ridiculous. Silver must look different too, in a tailored suit, his hair cropped neatly but for a few curls spared at the front.

‘Marjorie, Alfred,’ Flint speaks sternly. ‘You’re not to go bothering strangers.’

Silver could swear that moustache is bristling in anger as Flint glares at him.

‘He’s not a stranger,’ Alfie protests. ‘He’s our friend Solomon.’

‘He is indeed,’ Silver smiles, producing a business card from his waistcoat pocket. ‘Do look me up if you’re ever in the market for antiques.’

Flint makes no move to take it, but Marjorie does. She mouths the letters as she reads.

‘We’re getting off at the next station,’ Flint reminds the children. ‘Go and wake your mother.’

‘But _Papa…’_ Marjorie complains. Flint gives her a look that once made hardened pirates quail before him. She kicks the seat before shuffling off it in a huff, dragging Alfred out behind her.

Flint crouches, kissing each child on the head before they go skipping off down the carriage. He stands, hovering in the doorway.

Silver’s mouth has been hanging slightly open since they called him _Papa._

‘Their father died in the war,’ Flint explains gruffly.

‘I see,’ Silver says. It’s remarkable how many things a war can explain. Marriage, apparently among them.

‘Where are you going?’ Flint asks. He steps inside, somehow keeping his back pressed to the compartment door as he closes it. The white linen of his jacket is forgiving enough not to crumple.

‘Paris,’ Silver lets his accent slide.

‘Indeed,’ Flint responds. Not quite a question, not quite anything.

‘They say it’s magnificent,’ Silver smiles.

‘Why now?’ Flint asks suddenly. ‘Here?’

Silver adjusts himself in his seat. His fingers smooth over his goatee—a habit he’d picked up from Flint, he doesn’t recall when.

‘I’ve no more idea than you,’ he murmurs. ‘It would seem to be happenstance.’

He cannot call it _serendipity,_ after all. Serendipity would suggest it was fortunate.

‘You look well,’ Flint comments.

‘Better than I did in a noose, yes,’ Silver retorts. ‘You look… different.’

Flint pushes his hair back, straightening the jacket, and he must realise how restless he’s acting. He sits, perched on the edge of the seat as if he can hop back up in a moment. It also positions him much closer to Silver.

‘I looked for you,’ the confession spills out of Flint. ‘I found an empty grave. The money gone. And your crutch—I hoped…’

‘You’re not after your share, are you?’ Silver jokes.

Flint recoils. There, in the crinkle of his sneer, is the king of pirates. ‘I didn’t even know you were here.’

‘No,’ Silver muses. ‘It’s just…’

‘Happenstance,’ Flint echoes.

‘Indeed,’ Silver says. Not quite anything.

The rain lashes against the glass like waves. For a moment, the way the train rocks on its tracks, Silver remembers.

‘Paris?’ Flint asks. His voice is small, softer at the edges than it used to be.

‘Mm,’ Silver says. ‘Will you be stopping there on your vacation?’

Oh, the hint of hope. It’s too much to give away, but there’s something at the corner of Flint’s mouth, between his brows, that catches.

‘No,’ he looks out the window, as if there’s anything to see but green and grey sloshing by. ‘Rose—my wife—detests big cities.’

‘Well,’ Silver thumbs a non-existent crease in his trouser leg. Flint’s knee has swung close to his own.

He can think of nothing else to say. Nothing about the lovely French countryside, or the red-headed woman with a son named _Alfred_ , of all things, or something, something else. Something that tickles his leaden tongue, that has Flint almost twitching with tension, waiting for him to offer.

The rattling of the compartment door startles them both.

‘Papa, will you help us with the luggage?’ Marjorie asks.

Flint slaps both his thighs, and Silver pulls back, not quite recoiling but tucking himself deeper into the corner. He waves at Marjorie, and tells her to enjoy her trip.

‘Well,’ Flint says. Did it sound so thick in Silver’s mouth?

The train is beginning to slow. Marjorie waves back at him, and then she vanishes down the carriage.

Flint lingers on the threshold. Silver holds his gaze, solemn and steady as Flint is storming.

Then Flint’s gone, the compartment door bouncing shut behind him. Silver turns away, biting at his thumbnail until it stings.

The rain is so heavy he can’t read the name of the station. Three red blobs are hurried off the carriage, conductors guiding them to the shelter of the awning.

A figure in white follows them, too slow, not as hunched as it should be in the downpour. It jumps at the train’s whistle, as does Silver. Silver imagines it turns to look back.

As the train pulls away to Paris, the figure stands still on the platform, in spite of the rain.


	7. 1940, Picardy

‘Sergeant James! There’s someone alive in here!’

Jones and Harrow are manhandling a collapsed wall. Flint clambers over the rubble to help them.

‘Watch it—his leg!’ yells Jones.

‘Sergeant, where’s a medic?’ Harrow shouts.

‘It’s alright!’ calls a third voice. ‘Just get me out first, will you?’

Flint gets between Jones and Harrow, grasping the hand thrust out through the gap under the wall. He pulls. Jones and Harrow are starting to shake with effort, and there’s a horrible moment of resistance followed with a visceral crunch as Flint finally gets the man free.

They collapse in the ruins, gasping for breath. Their survivor is covered in dust, half his left leg missing and the right leg bent at an uncanny angle.

Jones opens his mouth and Flint barks: ‘I’ll take care of this one for now. Go see if there’s any others.’

As they go scurrying away, the survivor sits up, taking his right leg in both hands and twisting it. Another crunch as it corrects itself. He looks up at Flint.

‘There aren’t any others,’ he says.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Flint tells him. ‘They didn’t need to see you do that.’

‘I suppose not,’ Silver brushes himself off. He’s completely white with dust, save for the blood drying on him from his hair to his ankle. It makes his eyes more strikingly blue. ‘Well, thank you for your assistance, Sergeant James…?’

‘Sergeant Thomas James,’ Flint answers. ‘From the—‘

‘Are you _British?’_ Silver interrupts, cocking his head in amusement.

‘What I am is the reason you’re not stuck under a concrete wall,’ Flint reminds him.

‘You, a British soldier!’ Silver grins. ‘How things change.’

Flint stands up, offering a hand to Silver. Silver takes it, hooking his left arm around Flint’s shoulders. The weight of him is so familiar it’s almost comfortable.

‘So, your _vacation_ ended?’ Silver asks, as sweetly as a viper. Flint has half a mind to drop him, but he steers Silver back to their camp.

‘Yes,’ he snaps.

‘Shame,’ Silver couldn’t be more insincere if he tried.

‘I knew you were in France,’ Flint murmurs, his breath shortening as Silver hops beside him. ’I don’t mean I _knew,_ but I knew you had been—when we last…’

It’s more than he can possibly explain.

‘Well, I’ve been thinking of leaving,’ Silver informs him. ‘There’s a war going on.’

‘You’re not still using Solomon, are you?’ Flint asks, lowering Silver onto a bench.

‘My god, no,’ Silver accepts a canteen of water and a cloth. He wipes his face and hands clean before drinking.

The medic approaches, slowing when he realises Silver’s not writhing around in pain.

‘Leave him be,’ Flint says.

‘Harrow said he’d lost a limb…?’ the medic stammers.

‘Oh, it’s no problem,’ Silver says, his French accent making a sudden appearance. ‘I lost it in the last war.’

The other men frown at him. After all, Silver still looks thirty.

‘Really, I’m healthy as a horse,’ Silver thumps his own chest. It’s all Flint can do not to roll his eyes.

‘Just find him a crutch, will you?’ Flint tells the medic, command in his voice this time. He can feel Silver watching him as the medic hurries off.

A crutch is eventually found, and the men rustle together a decent meal. Silver is quiet while he eats, and Flint never leaves his side.

Flint orders his men to their duties, assigning himself the first lookout shift. As he leaves the camp, Silver follows him like a shadow.

‘We move on tomorrow,’ Flint turns to him. ‘My men. We can’t—you’ll have to…’

‘I can take care of myself,’ Silver adjusts his weight, looking up at him. ‘That’s never changed.’

‘You really need to get the fuck out of Europe,’ Flint’s hand is twisting into Silver’s shirt.

‘Good advice,’ Silver chuckles, looking down. ‘I’d hate to get killed.’

’There’s things worse than dying,’ Flint says. ‘This war. It’s not like the others.’

’You don’t have to tell me,’ Silver pats Silver on the chest. ‘You never asked how long I was under that building.’

Flint kisses him. First he’s pulling on Silver’s shirt, then cupping his face, then his hands are raking where there used to be masses of curls, then he’s groaning against Silver’s tongue and holding onto him so tightly it must be hurting Silver. Silver doesn’t seem to give a shit about anything except kissing him back.

Nothing has tasted so good in fifty years. If he doesn’t stop soon, he’s going to follow Silver the fuck out of Europe. To the ends of the earth. But Silver pulls away first, that way he always used to do, suspended as if he’ll dart in for another kiss, just distant enough that Flint can’t steal one himself.

‘Look after yourself…’ Silver pauses, a small smile crinkling his nose. ‘James.’


	8. 1974, Miami

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the chapter with cannibalism! Take care.

Bodies writhe and grind like a rolling sea, the bass loud enough to drown out their stupid voices and the booze strong enough to blot out their stupid faces. Silver throws his arms over his head and twists his hips. Nobody here is sober enough to notice his leg, and it’s not the kind of dance floor where anybody’s looking for footwork. They’re all looking for the same thing as Silver.

A dark-haired guy has one hand on Silver’s waist, staring as Silver undulates to the music. Silver drapes himself along the guy with a sinuous roll upwards and a half-lidded stare. The guy’s biting his lip, lapping it up, and Silver laughs, arching backwards. He pitches into another body, his shoulders colliding with a man’s chest. Silver doesn’t care, bringing his hand up to caress the new man’s face as he peels away from his dark-haired suitor. As he writhes back he finds the new guy is broad, with short hair that Silver’s fingers card through. Silver’s practically sitting on the firm thigh jammed against his ass, his hips rolling in figure-eights as freckled arms snake around his middle. The hands close on his chest and tug, and Silver laughs breathlessly as their bodies are pulled flush together. He drapes his head against the man’s shoulder, touching the straining tendons of his throat up to a sharp jaw and high cheekbones and all the things Silver likes. His tongue follows that glistening throat and the man tastes—familiar.

Flint must feel the frustrated huff of breath. He looks down at Silver and his expression sharpens with recognition. His lip twitches in half a snarl.

Silver hasn’t been this close to Nassau in two centuries. He should have known Flint would find him here.

Flint opens his mouth and Silver just shoves his tongue inside. He doesn’t want to talk, for once, about any of it. He just wants to feel, twisting himself against Flint’s body until they’re facing, Silver half-mounting Flint’s thigh and bouncing. Flint kisses like he’s starving, pulling Silver up and around him. Silver’s hands are raking down Flint’s chest, then his back, squeezing his ass. Silver kicks forward and Flint’s already hardening. When Flint finally gasps, breaking away, his eyes are too glassy for any questions Silver doesn’t want to answer. Silver stares fixedly at Flint’s mouth.

They’re not the most indecent couple in the club by far, but Silver finds Flint’s hand and squeezes it. Flint nods and leads him out the door, into a street just as hot and humid as inside.

Every time Flint starts to say something Silver kisses him, until Flint finally gets the picture and shuts the fuck up. He leads Silver to a hotel room four storeys up with a broken elevator. Flint’s half-carrying him by the last level. Silver oozes over Flint in the hallway, rucking his shirt up as Flint tries to find his key. Inside, Flint lifts him up and tosses him on the bed. The cheap springs groan and at least one of them snaps against Silver’s back. Silver strips in an instant, naked save for the prosthetic leg. He shuffles to the edge of the mattress to grab Flint by the belt, gets Flint’s jeans unzipped, and pulls out his cock. He licks a wet stripe from base to tip and groans, lips dragging and making Flint shiver. He keeps grappling at Flint until Flint is kneeling on the bed above him, and the moment he wraps his lips around Flint’s cock Flint is thrusting into his mouth with a rough gasp. Silver sucks him down, his tongue curling. He bobs his head and Flint grabs his hair, tugging on it. Silver lets him yank and claw, countering the sting of it with the occasional graze of his teeth. He can feel Flint’s thighs shaking, and Silver reaches around to pull the cheeks of his ass. Flint curls over him and Silver swallows, his throat constricting around the head of Flint’s cock. When he has to pull back for air he gasps through his nose, buried in coarse red hair and seeking the smell he remembers. Flint is shaking, his knees sliding further apart until sucking his cock is getting properly uncomfortable for Silver. Flint holds Silver’s face in his hands and eases him back. Silver resists, his tongue darting out for desperate licks until Flint has to shove him down. Flint finishes unbuttoning his shirt and gets his jeans off, then Silver is dragging him back onto the bed and rolling on top of him. They kiss, Flint licking at the taste of himself in Silver’s mouth. His hand finds Silver’s cock and pumps, not with the ruthless focus of getting Silver off, but the way he used to when he wanted to feel the size of Silver—when he wants to be fucked.

Silver thrusts into his hand a few times, dizzy with how good it feels, then he lunges off Flint and finds the bedside drawer.

Rattling next to the bible is a bottle of lube. Silver sits up, grabbing Flint’s ankle and tugging him closer, letting Flint’s thighs part. He props Flint’s leg against his chest so Flint is spread open for him. Flint’s chest rises and falls. He stares as Silver slicks his fingers, a loud groan escaping him when Silver starts with two. He rocks back, sinking himself onto Silver. Silver hooks and curls his fingers, keeping to the edge of what he knows Flint can take. Flint looks perfect in the dim light from outside, painted with a fresh coat of freckles from the Florida sun, his nipples pink and hard, his thigh tightly muscled where it strains against Silver, his cock leaking onto the thick hair of his stomach. His eyes are struggling to stay open and his lip is trembling from the effort not to break the wordless spell laid over them. Silver scissors his fingers and Flint yells, bucking, demanding another. He works in a third and Flint shivers. Silver moves in time with Flint’s short, frantic breaths, quicker and quicker until Flint’s heel kicks Silver in the shoulder and he leverages himself free, flipping over onto knees and elbows.

Silver grabs a fistful of Flint’s ass, kneading into the firmness of it and spreading him. Flint moans, impatient while Silver slicks his cock. Silver drapes his body over Flint’s back, lining himself up. He eases in at first, savouring until the head of his cock pops inside and they both gasp. His breath stutters as Flint flexes around him, and Flint shoves himself back to take Silver’s cock to the hilt. Silver grins, holding Flint’s hips still as he drags himself almost out, and when Flint is shivering, a plea on the tip of his tongue, Silver slams home. Flint shouts, collapsing onto the mattress, and Silver fucks him relentlessly. Flint loves a bruising pace, his legs spread wide and his fingers scrunching the sheets. Silver rests his forehead on Flint’s back, his tongue flicking out to catch a bead of sweat trickling along Flint’s spine. He thrusts as hard as he can and the bedsprings screech in chorus with the choked moans being wrung out of Flint. Silver is panting, grabbing onto Flint’s hips and pulling him back onto all fours. Silver’s bent over him so close, pressed to the searing heat of Flint’s skin. He slides his still-slick hand along Flint’s hip to find Flint’s cock where it hangs hard and heavy beneath them. Flint whimpers as Silver tugs, bringing Flint so close he’s throbbing in Silver’s hand. Then Silver encircles the base of Flint’s cock, trapping him on the precipice of coming. Flint almost howls with need, meeting Silver’s thrust even as it feels like he must be shaking apart from the inside out.

 _Has anybody else been this good?_ Silver wants to ask. _Does anybody fuck you like I do?_

But he knows the answer already, from the clenching heat around his cock. From the tension in Flint’s thighs where they meet Silver’s. From his other hand, that was braced over Flint but has somehow found Flint’s fingers, interlacing with them and twisting into the sheet together.

Silver doesn’t let Flint come until he feels his own orgasm coiling down his spine, the intensity of it bursting brightly behind his eyelids. The sound it pulls out of him is fragile, almost drowned by Flint’s shuddering groan that pitches high at the end as Silver strokes him through the aftershocks. They feel so good, so tight around his cock, just the far side of painful and just what Silver needed.

Silver tumbles off him, his chest heaving and slippery with sweat. He catches his breath, staring at his fingers where they still tangle with Flint’s. Flint’s face is buried in the pillow. His freckles look like rust, speckled across his heaving shoulders. Silver draws a long breath and sighs, and Flint echoes him, rolling onto his side in synchronised movement with Silver. Their hands separate but Flint’s other arm drapes over Silver’s waist. It’s too warm and too damp and they’re going to smell awful. Silver lets exhaustion pull him under anyway.

He wakes in the darkest part of the night, his fingers twitching. He slips free of Flint’s arms, clambering from the bed and rifling through his shorts for his cigarettes.

The balcony is barely a foot wide, tacked onto the building as an excuse to charge more for the room. Silver takes a long drag of the cigarette. He wonders if he’s close enough to the beach to hear the waves. The neon lights of a barbecue joint down the street flicker erratically, and the scent of cooking meat wafts up to mingle with his cigarette smoke.

Sometimes he hardly notices. He’s eaten over plenty of campfires, been a chef for a living, and been on more battlefields than he’d care to think about. But sometimes it hits him like a bullet and his gut turns over and he’s heaving bad mojitos over the fourth floor.

Flint blamed the island. The place _was_ cursed, Silver had no doubts on that. But Flint doesn’t seem to remember the thousand little scars they each should bear from how fiercely they trained together on the cliffs. He doesn’t know that Silver _did_ drown under the Walrus. That Israel Hands beat Silver’s skull in when he found him on the beach. That Silver took a bullet to the stomach during the skirmish in Nassau square.

In the later parts of his first life, when Madi was beginning to turn grey and Silver looked as young as the day they’d met, he used to blame the hurricane. He imagined the storm to be a bargain with the devil, a force of nature that took their souls as the price for their freedom, damning Silver too when he didn’t resist Flint’s wager. Or sometimes he’d fancy it was down in the rowboat when the sharks came to collect, a covenant they sealed in blood as they’d teetered on the knife-edge of death together.

Silver wipes his mouth and lights another cigarette. It wasn’t the storm, and it wasn’t the sharks. It was a moment in between. It was Silver who damned them both to walk for eternity in this purgatory of barbecue and cheap hotels and wars that never end.

In the doldrums, he’d argued with Flint over splitting the rations. He’d refused outright to consider eating while his own men starved. And as he’d watched Flint execute two crewmen, Silver had kept still, unable to deny the rationale that it was two fewer mouths to feed—two fewer bellies left empty. Flint had disappeared, and Silver had insisted Billy get the surviving men below, away from the carnage. He’d made it sound noble. As their Quartermaster, he’d tend to the bodies.

So that’s how he found a compromise where he and Flint ate—only he and Flint. He’d never condemn the men to such a monstrous thing. But Silver snuck enough tools into Flint’s cabin to cook the meat until it was edible, and they’d tried to hide the smell as they ate together for the first time in a week.

That fucking smell.

He stubs the cigarette into the crook of his elbow, letting the sting pull him back to the present. It’s just spare ribs and cheap cuts of steak wafting up from the street.

‘Happy birthday,’ he mutters to himself.

Silver dresses quickly and quietly. Flint is fast asleep, face pressed where Silver had been lying earlier. Silver hesitates, then leans over, ghosting his lips over the crescent moon still inked on Flint’s arm.

He spends the cash he found in Flint’s wallet on a bucket of ribs. He gnaws every last one to the bone and licks the sauce of his fingers as he walks to the beach.

He sits on the sand, and he listens to the waves.


	9. 1983, New York

The shop door creaks and Flint glances up. He doesn’t say anything as the customer slips inside. It’s not that kind of shop. The customer keeps his face turned toward the shelves, putting distance between himself and the window.

That’s usual. The stock near the windows is filler, mostly. Even here, even now, nobody wants to be seen in this kind of bookshop.

Flint keeps one eye on the customer’s back. The black curls make him smile: to this day he has a weakness for them. His eyes trail from where they’re piled on the customer’s head to the loud shirt, the snug jeans with a mustard yellow handkerchief in his left pocket, and the cowboy boots. The uneven gait as he—

_Damn_. Flint glares down at the counter. But it’s like gravity now Flint knows he’s there, as if the pages rustle and the spines creak in Silver’s direction. Like some order existed in this ramshackle, crooked little place, only waiting for Silver to stand in the middle of it.

‘Is there a—‘ Silver begins to ask, then he registers Flint’s face.

Flint looks up. Like he’s surprised. Like there’s air in the shop.

‘You’re fucking kidding me,’ Silver mutters.

‘What is it you want?’ Flint asks, not bothering to be polite.

Silver eyes him, chin tilted up.

‘You know, I’ve forgotten the title,’ Silver’s voice is flat. His fingers trail along the stand of business cards. They make an uncomfortably loud clicking sound as he tips them back and forth. He takes one out, glancing down at the name. _Barlow’s_. His eyebrows twitch.

‘I’ll call if I remember.’

‘You do that,’ Flint growls.

Silver’s never forgotten anything in his life. Not a title, not to call. Flint wishes he could forget this, but the phone in Barlow’s rings and for years, he wonders. In the moment before someone speaks at the other end of the line his heart quickens, so very long after it should have stopped.

Five years later at eight in the morning, it rings. Flint is wrestling with a stack of magazines trying to twist themselves free of their twine, and he props them on his thigh as he fumbles for the phone.

‘Barlow’s,’ he recites.

On the other end of the line there’s a breath of laughter, like disbelief. Almost nothing, but he’d know it anywhere.

Flint waits. Then he can’t wait any longer.

‘Where are you?’ he asks.

Silver sighs, a wet and staggered sound. ‘Sunny California.’

The twine snaps. Magazines spill onto the floor.

‘They all die,’ Silver’s voice crackles down the line. ‘Everyone except us.’

Flint locks up the shop that day. He empties his bank account to buy a one-way flight.

California is as sunny as promised. When he gets there, Silver is already gone.


	10. 2015, Paris

Despite it being the middle of June, a drizzle comes rapidly over the Seine. It catches the rooftop party by surprise. The guests gather up their drinks in a flurry, and the noisy gathering makes its way indoors. Flint stays, leaning back against the edge of the balcony. He rolls the tumbler in his hand to hear the ice jingle. Raindrops tickle his shoulders, blessedly cool after a long, sweltering day. He turns his face up to the pink sky and breathes deep. The sounds of the cars far below seep into the susurrus of rain. The water drums harder and colder against the bare skin of his forearms and he thinks, just on the edge of hearing, there might be thunder.

‘Magnificent city,’ says a familiar voice. ‘Don’t they say?’

Flint doesn’t open his eyes yet. He lets his other senses find the rustle of Silver’s clothes, the warmth as he props himself beside Flint, the smell of his cigarettes, and the static between their elbows.

‘Afraid of a little rain, though,’ Flint replies.

‘Mm,’ Silver agrees. ‘But at least it gets you a moment of solitude.’

‘This isn’t solitude,’ Flint’s eyes open in slits, a smirk coming unprompted as he finds Silver looking back at him.

‘No,’ Silver slides closer. ‘Solitude never suited you, anyway.’

‘They say those things will kill you,’ he nods at Silver’s cigarette.

‘Well, they haven’t yet,’ Silver shrugs.

Flint laughs, soft and painful, barely more than a breath.

‘I don’t know why,’ he says, turning his head, looking at Silver properly. ‘But last time… I thought it might be the last time.’

Silver doesn’t speak for a long while. The rain grows heavier, making shadows along the skyline.

‘I always wonder,’ Silver murmurs. ‘But I’m always wrong.’

Silver’s hair always looks slightly alive in a low pressure system. The rest of Silver looks completely and beautifully alive.

Lightning skitters over the horizon.

They tilt inward like gravity, like two rivulets of rainwater on glass, like the instinctual rebalancing on a deck in heavy swell. Like they always do, sooner or later. The kiss tastes of armagnac and smoke and the ozone of the storm. Silver’s mouth opens for him and thunder shakes the city.

Flint leans his forehead on Silver’s, and that last little kiss that Silver always suspends between them—this time, Flint twists and he catches it. It’s brief, and sweet, and stolen, and he steals another. Another.

That’s the thing about your favourite song. You can always sing it again.

They’re soaked to the skin. Silver’s hair clings to his face in swirls, his lashes stuck together and his eyes more blue than water. His shirt is plastered to his chest, and a raindrop trickles over the place where his throat meets his collarbone.

‘Will you stay?’ Flint asks him. ‘I’m tired. Just stay here, for a while.’

Silver stays.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, everyone. It was great to put together such a sweeping story. Your comments are really appreciated!  
> This fic is a spiritual successor to my first Black Sails fic, [Ships in the Night](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15986876/chapters/37295444). If you want more in this vein of reluctant destinies, magical realism, and almost-misses, I humbly recommend it.


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